


Not alright

by thejourneymaninn



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Angst, Desperation, Gen, Isolation, Januanders, Sadness, Self-Doubt, Self-Hatred, Suicidal Thoughts, takes place late in act 3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-30
Updated: 2017-01-30
Packaged: 2018-09-20 23:59:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9521777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thejourneymaninn/pseuds/thejourneymaninn
Summary: Anders watches his friends from a distance, alone with his thoughts and fears.For Januanders Day 17 (Anders and Sadness)





	

The door to the dining room is open, laughter taunting his ears in waves and wisps. His friends are gathered around the table, close enough for him to see the smiles on their faces. He can even smell the food in front of them.

They haven’t noticed him yet.

Cloaked in the shadows of the cellar door. How fitting. Literally beneath them. He was invited. But invited does not equal welcome.

An arm around his shoulder. A warm greeting. An eager smile, a smirk, a giggle, ears perking up at his words. Their attention on him. They listen. They _hear_. A throaty laugh. They ask him to continue, their eyes shine as they lean in in anticipation…

He watches as Hawke’s hand trails along Isabela’s arm. He has to stop drifting on daydreams. Eventually, they burst, all of them; the shores of reality are too ragged, sneering as they await his impact, their sharp fangs bared. How many more times is he going to let himself be torn to pieces before he finally learns?

He does not belong; he doesn’t fit in. And he never will. His jokes too bitter, his questions unwanted. To them, his thoughts are alien, his hopes, at best, something to belittle. At worst, something to fear. To prevent. To hate. They dismiss what he has been through, if they choose to listen at all. And when they don’t, his voice gets shrill. He can never seem to find the right volume, the balance that comes so easily to them. Always either too _there,_ or not there enough, to please them.

His silence a burden and his words of no interest. His eyes too hollow. They tolerate him. Pity him. One or two might even like him. The way you like a hopeless uncle, or the dog who keeps shitting on your carpet. With an indulgent smile and a pat on the head. “He just can’t help himself; it’s not his fault.”

_You’re bloody right it isn’t. It’s yours_. He wants to scream, sometimes, but he only leaks whispered bitterness. And a fake smile, a wave of his hand, when someone actually asks what’s wrong.

“Oh, nothing, I’m alright.”

He is not alright.

But they would not understand.

He will never be a part of them, never truly be seen. Too much has been broken. It is for the best. He has his cause. He has Justice. No need to drag them down with him.

A normal life. Just another foolish hope that mocks him at night, when there is nothing but darkness and the constant noise in his mind. Justice’s voice. And, so much louder and infinitely worse, voices that aren’t Justice. They bite; they claw. They never let go. The broken fragments, the doubts and memories, that mosaic of splinters that was once him.

It is too late.

But before he goes, he can still try to make a change. For those like him…or like who he was before they reduced him to dust.

He turns, quietly, and slinks back into the shadows, through the dust and mould, back to the sewers, to the formula he found and the plan that might change the world. He won’t live to see it, but perhaps one day, someone like him will walk into a room of friends.

And belong. 

**Author's Note:**

> We know that Anders doesn’t expect to survive the Chantry boom, even on the friendship route, but just to be clear: he does, of course. Hawke supports him wholeheartedly.


End file.
